The Shadow's Rise
by Terranorth
Summary: 15 years have passed since the Ascension War, when Logan Gyre was crowned High King, and 15 years of peace and prosperity have followed. However, slowly the shadows start to stir once more, and an ancient foe begins to rise threatening all of Midcryu.
1. The Coming Storm

**Yo. Sorry this took so long, but school caught up to me, and I was going to write over the break but something kept coming up until one day I look at the calendar and whoa the break is over. Heh. Anyway, my procrastinating tendencies aside, I read over my old work and decided to merge the chapters I had out so far and rewrite them a little, since I thought I could do a little better. Also I've been working on the new chapter, and it's about halfway done, so I'll try to get on it. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Angel Trilogy and have written this merely for my own and, hopefully, your enjoyment.**

The forest was silent; a deep unbroken, unnatural absence filled the air. This was not the quiet of a peaceful night, the tranquil transition time where the workings of the day come to an end, and the animals return to their respective lodgings, and the creatures of the night have yet to awaken to forage for food. This was not like that serene period of time when the sun had just faded in a glorious blaze of reds and oranges leaving the sky in a pale peaceful twilight. No, this silence had a sinister tint to it. It was oppressive in how absolute it was, how complete. It was not the silence of twilight that had descended, but the silence of the grave. For even on quietest of nights there is some noise, some quiet stirring in the darkness: a bird chirping, an animal moving through the foliage, the wind shifting the branches, the sounds of life that made the world. No, tonight there was only silence and sense of foreboding. No creature moved and no wind stirred in Ezra's woods this night.

Save for one. A black clad man glanced around the woods nervously, the silence making him on edge, searching for the threat he knew must be here, had to be here, needed to be here. Yet, around him was only silence and darkness unbroken. A deep, endless void that threatened to swallow him whole, interrupted only by a deep rhythmic beating that was his heartbeat, so loud in his ears compared to the silence that surrounded him, betraying that at least one creature still lived and breathed in the cursed woods.

"Though there should be two," he muttered to himself, still glancing around the woods once more, searching vainly for the predator he knew should exist.

He walked a few more steps towards the center of the woods, weaving between the shadows of trees and vines, occasionally stopping to duck nearly invisible branches and snares, before continuing onwards.

Though near the center of the damn place, he had not yet attracted the beast, and as he moved ever onwards, his dread increased with every one of his steps, a sense of foreboding slithering slightly in his heart, warning him. The Hunter had never hesitated to kill any trespassers before. For centuries any creature, any meister, any mage, hell, even any army that entered the woods were never seen again.

Yes, the Hunter. A twisted remnant of an age long since passed. An unstoppable machine made for one purpose: to kill, to slaughter, to destroy. Any and all foes fell to the beast in the darkest hours of Roygaris' mad scheme for power. Faster than thought, more powerful than any mortal, and seemingly immune to damage by blade or by talent, only one had managed to so much as graze it. Acaelus Thorne, now known as Durzo Blint, a man of legend. Even then it had seen unstoppable. Until one fateful day, Ezra the Mad decided to do battle with the creature. No one knows for certain what happened on that day, all that is known is that both the mad mage and the twisted hunter disappeared from history and the legend of Ezra's woods was born. From then on any soul or artifact that entered the woods, never left.

Therefore, even without any of his powerful magical artifacts, his presence alone should have attracted its attention. Stealthy he may be, but no man could hide from the beast for long. The woods, however, remained as silent as ever.

"That dream," he murmured his voice cutting the night, relieving the silence, "could that really have been the wolf." He thought back to the few flashes of the dream he still remembered, images of a tattered cloaked blurring and flashing through the woods flashed through his mind. Trees were being uprooted as though children's toys and falling, animals dying, ripped to shreds faster than even his eyes could track, boulders being smashed to pieces to a strike of immense strength, and worst part of all, a wailing. An unearthly, inhumane shriek containing only pain, hatred, and anger, a terrible boundless rage at nothing, and everything, but as suddenly as the rampage started it stopped. A figure stood still at the edge of the shadows, just beyond his vision. A silent silhouette immobile and petrifying, and slowly, as if it had finally sensed his presence, the creature turned towards him, a pair of flashing yellow eyes looking at him, the wolf's eyes.

That wasn't what scared him though. It wasn't that he had dreamed of the wolf, for the man had visited him in his dreams before. It wasn't that he saw the mad arch mage that so frightened him, or even the Hunter of these woods; it was the emotion in Ezra's eyes the brief moment their eyes connected. He did not look angry or sad, or even amused, nor did he have that mysterious air of wisdom or danger about him as he usually did when the man saw him in the antechamber of mysteries. No, what had frightened him, what had truly sent a chill through his soul was that the wolf, the mad arch mage, who had faced armies of demons and men alike with his unflinching amber eyes, had looked afraid. In his strange yellow eyes he could only see fear.

The black clad man shivered remembering the dream and hurried onwards. His master had tried to talk him out of coming to the cursed forest. He attempted to reason that if Ezra could survive a thousand years alone, he would still be fine without some self-appointed hero rushing off to help him. But something kept nagging him; he just couldn't forget the dream, something about it seemed wrong, terribly wrong. Eventually, he could stand it no longer. He quickly packed leaving both Retribution and the black ka'kari behind with Durzo for protection, before setting out to the woods.

It was insane, he knew. Suicidal even. No man who walked into Ezra's woods walked out again. Any soul that has strayed too close had not come back out of Ezra's woods. Yet despite nearing the center, he had yet to see the Hunter who had been guarding the woods ever since Ezra's battle with it so long ago.

He continued picking his way through the trees nearing a slight brightening of the light marking the edge of a clearing. He paused for a moment, wondering what he was about to see, before steeling his resolve and stepping forward into the moonlight.

He came out into a small clearing, completely and unnaturally round and about 50 yards wide. The ground was hard, dirt packed down to near rock hardness, as though traveled over so many times it was compressed and transformed. In the center of the clearing was a small hut, just large enough for a man to live in, made of straight-cut timber. It was surprisingly human and well constructed, albeit aged, given what the man suspected dwelt in it.

Thinking of that thing, however, brought his mind back to the matter at hand. He once more inched closer to the shack, all his instincts screaming at him, which made him wish he had risked bringing Retribution just so he didn't feel so damn defenseless. Upon approaching the door, he cautiously moved forward, an inch at a time, before glancing ever so slowly inwards, and found . . . darkness there and nothing more. (I couldn't resist)

Frowning slightly, he quickly glanced around the clearing then walked into the dwelling. Inside there was only a small cot, made out of tree branches and vines. Frowning further, he glanced around, the dread in his stomach growing, "where is it," he thought.

Just as he was about to leave to check outside once more, a small crinkle caught his attention. Glancing down, he saw a single sheet of ancient parchment beneath his feet.

Quickly leaning down, his heart racing, he picked up the paper and held it up to the moonlight to read the messy and hurried writing.

Time seemed to stop, as he read the brief note. His face paled, and his hands shook slightly. Looking up he stared at the silent trees trying to take in what he just read, trying to understand what had happened. Slowly, Kylar Stern held the note back up to the moonlight, a gentle wind now picking up, tousling his hair, and said softly, "He is free."

XXXXXXXXX

Viridiana impatiently tapped he slender white fingers on the desk in front of her while playing absent-mindedly with her one white lock, waiting. That seemed to be the majority of what she did these days, waiting, for something.

She growled to herself, "or someone."

From across the table another voice sighed in irritation, "Vi, despite what you may or may not think, bothering me will not make your husband come back any faster, nor will it accomplish anything fruitful other than distracting me and slowing my research."

Across the table sat Ariel Wyant, looking much the same after 15 years, her iron grey hair pulled up in her usual no nonsense bun, and surrounded by her customary notes and a large pile of very old and dusty books and scrolls recently pulled from the Chantry's archives, and any other archive she could weasel herself into.

Vi glared across the table at the older woman, murmuring a few choice swear words under her breath about what Ariel could do with her research.

Ariel sighed in annoyance once more, "One would think the married life would have civilized your tongue at this point, but I guess some traits run too deep to be expunged." Ariel had long since given up attempting to control Vi's tongue, in no small part due to the fact that Vi had already been risen to full sister status ten years ago, and Ariel found herself less and less able to control what Vi did, forcibly at least. That, and she was sure swearing had become a biological function to Vi, like breathing.

"Maybe my tongue would be more civil if I actually saw Kylar more than two times a month. He always seems to be dashing off to someone's aid, always coming up with another reason to leave me to play the hero," Vi retorted sourly.

Ariel couldn't help but notice a gruff sort of affection in Vi's voice when talking of her husband, and chortled quietly to herself, earning another death glare from Vi.

"If you desire something to do Vi, you could always help me with my research, right now I am attempting to order these papers in chronological order, with your help it should proceed much quicker," offered Ariel.

Vi merely snorted and turned her attention outside the window, watching the boats in the distance slowly sail by the magical island, leaving the room in peace once more.

Ariel returned to her studies leaving Vi alone to her thoughts and occasional cursing.

10 years had passed since Vi had assumed full sisterhood. She had stuck around the Chantry for another 2 years afterwards, getting closer to her fellow sisters and helping to teach the young ones, until they banned her that is. She snorted at that thought, the kids needed to be more desensitized to the truths of the world, the Chantry was far too stifling in her opinion, and what was a little swearing now and then?

Vi sighed, as she reminisced about her earlier days. As time went by she became increasingly discontent with her position. Her early life had been full of pain, struggle, and darkness, and while she was glad to put that behind her and forget it, her childhood had left its mark on her, marks that could never be completely erased.

After 7 years at the Chantry, with several attempts to make her Speaker, which she half-heartedly entertained if only to scare the shit out of Ariel's sister, the current speaker, Istariel, Vi had decided to leave the Chantry to be with Kylar at Logan's new capital Elenea.

She loved new Sisters dearly, well some of them, but no one made Vi feel as secure and at peace as Kylar did.

Kylar and Vi had married several years after Elene's death, once Kylar had felt ready to move on, Vi patiently waiting for him and helping him. It was a small wedding, with only a few of their closest friends in attendance. They had later bought a small house in Elenea, which they sometimes, though rarely, occupied.

Kylar, to her irritation, spent most of his time either with Logan, helping him maintain and rule his new kingdoms, or out and about doing whatever it was he did in the country.

Vi was usually annoyed that her husband seemed to spend more time with strangers than herself, but accepted long ago that that was simply the man Kylar was, and she would have to accept that. Or at least get over it.

Vi frowned however, thinking back to Kylar's most recent obsession. She was unsure where precisely he was right now, but he had become increasingly agitated and nervous about something, ever since that nightmare he had a month ago, and had been arguing with Durzo a lot. Finally two days before she arrived home at the chantry, where they were staying at the moment, to discover a note on their bed saying he would be gone for a few days.

She scowled thinking about it.

"That's it," she thought, "no, where am I going, or what am I doing. No, he couldn't even be bothered to say good-bye to me in person, he had to leave a note, a f***ing note."

Ariel watched warily as Vi seemed to work herself into a greater and greater frenzy, and was about to interrupt her personal musings in order to prevent any violence or property damage from occurring, when the door opened suddenly, and a small red-haired figure dashed into the room, flinging herself at Vi.

"Mama," shouted a little girl, with the same golden-red hair as Vi, while she hugged her Mother's waist, giggling.

"I missed you mama," she squealed.

Vi affectionately stroked her five year old daughter's hair and pulled her into her lap, a soft smile gracing her lips, "you were only gone for 3 hours Elene, how could you possibly miss me?"

Elene pouted cutely, rubbing her face into the crook of her mother's neck, "3 hours is a long time, especially in those boring classes."

Vi laughed quietly with her daughter.

Elene was the spitting image of her mother, she had the same flowing curls of coppery orange hair, that gleamed gold in the sunlight, with the same slender proportions, and lovely features, but transposed on a younger more innocent soul. When Ariel looked at Elene, she saw the girl Vi could have been, and it was beautiful.

She also noticed that when Elene was with Vi, the woman seemed gentler and more at peace with herself, as if she could finally start to let go of all the pains of the past. Looking at the mother and daughter animatedly talking of the little girl's day, made Ariel smile to herself, and wonder, briefly, what it would have been like if she too had decided to start a family.

She was interrupted in her musings by the young Elene asking, "Mommy when is Daddy coming back, I miss him."

Ariel, too, was quite interested in Kylar's recent doings. Vi had seemed increasingly worried and anxious over her husband, more so than usual, and that man always seemed to find some sort of trouble for himself.

Vi, however, betrayed none of her earlier temper or worry and merely stood with her daughter still in her arms, "don't worry dear, he'll be back soon."

She slowly walked to the door, nodding good-bye to Ariel as Elene continued on with her stream of comments having accepted her Mother's answer.

Despite her earlier comments about Vi's language, the girl had indeed come a long way from the twisted, foul-mouthed, and temperamental wet girl she was when they first met. The recent years had been good to her, and she was slowly beginning to open up much more to others, like a flower opening to the sun after spending so much time in the shadows. It could be dazzling and painful at first, but with time it would flourish.

Ariel chuckled to herself, "I never would have thought of Vi as a flower before, but then again I could never imagine her as a mother either. I suppose she has indeed come a long way."

Leaving thoughts of Vi and Kylar behind behind she once more turned to her research of the moment: prophecies.

Ever since Dorian's prophecies had proved true and instrumental in defeating the Strangers and Khali, Ariel was determined to find what other information and clues prophecies held, only to find a complete lack of order or semblance of any kind. Her resulting study of the subject was proving surprisingly difficult and frustrating, even for her.

The problem was that every crazy loon, religious fanatic, or self-delusional nitwit for the past millennia seemed to have believed him or herself a prophet and had written down their mad ramblings as prophecy. This resulted in a flood of worthless "prophecies" that only discredited the field as a whole, and turned attention away from the true prophets that could aid and warn of coming disasters.

In addition to the whole false prophet headache was each country's miserly grip on the prophecies of their own native prophets. Every country had a few prophets that they personally held great store in, and in an attempt to keep such important information to themselves, had locked away the prophecies in their own archives, shouting praises to their own prophets while denouncing the legitimacy of rival countries prophets, completely defeating the purpose of the prophecies altogether. Honestly, what was the point in having prophets if you just lock up all their prophecies where they were beyond the reach of everyone? All in all it had made for a giant tangled mess to be sorted through.

But if there was one thing Ariel had, it was patience, and an iron will that would not be denied.

Ariel began gathering every scrap of paper and every book that so much as hinted at a prophecy from every archive she could sneak or bully her way into in Logan's newly forged kingdom. After gathering thousands of references she began shifting through them, throwing away obvious fakes, and searching for the patterns of true prophecies and prophets. Eventually, after over a decade of study, she was reasonable sure she had found the works of most of the true prophets.

After that, she decided to order the prophecies chronologically, to create a prophetic timeline of sorts. Every true prophecy had markings that dated it; whether it is a reference to the seasons, or some event or significant person, with enough study it was possible to roughly place when a prophecy occurred.

Slowly Ariel began to notice a pattern form. Every decade at least 5 or 6 prophecies would occur; sometimes more if a significant event took place. Even in the dullest of times, at least a few noteworthy occurrences happened that warranted a prophecy or mention of some kind. However, as Ariel sorted through more and more of the prophecies, she began to notice something disturbing. Following Dorian's prophecy about the High King, not one prophecy had yet to occur. There was a hole in prophecy. Preceding Logan's crowning there was the regular stream of prophecy, but upon that single event, they abruptly stopped. For 15 years the voice of prophecy was silent.

At first Ariel thought she had made a mistake, failed to notice some event that had happened, misplaced a prophecy, or passed over some clue. But as she checked, then double-checked her work she became increasingly convinced: there were no prophecies.

"It's almost as if something was blocking them," she muttered to herself, but quickly shook her head. That was ridiculous, what could block prophecy itself.

Turning back to her books and trying to ignore the growing worry in her gut she noticed a small old piece of parchment tucked amid her pile of Chantry books from the older and more restricted section of the archives.

Curious she pulled out the old parchment and examined it, having never recalled seeing it before, which was impossible for her.

She looked at the quality of the paper, "this must be old," she said aloud to herself, "very old to be in this condition despite the spells in the Chantry's archives to preserve the books. Centuries old. Many, many centuries old."

Growing ever more curious she looked down at the small cramped writing on the page, which looked vaguely familiar. Musing on where she could have seen it before, Ariel began reading, her voice growing more and more troubled with every line:

_When the servant of the shadows shall be freed_

_And from his cursed jailor released be he,_

_The time will be known to have come at last_

_When the twisted hunter shall his master find_

_And signal the end of the light._

_He is coming._

_The Shadow is coming._

XXXXXXXXXX

"Give it back Nate, it's mine," whined Maria, as she attempted to jump up and grab her stolen doll from her older, and significantly taller, brother.

"Of course Maria, you only needed to ask. I didn't know you wanted it back," said Nathan, a serious expression on his face, as he extended the doll to his sister, though his mischievous tone and sparkling eyes betrayed his true intentions.

After growing up with her brother for her entire 12-year-old life, and being the subject to many a prank, one would imagine she would have learned better by then. Perhaps her nature was too trusting, as her Father's was when he was younger. Or perhaps she is simply young and naïve to the ways of the world and young boys. Whatever the reason, the outcome of this little exchange was painfully obvious to everyone in the room save the young girl in question.

Nathan slowly extended the doll towards the impatiently waiting outstretched hand of Maria. After waiting several seconds for her brother to ever so slowly give her back her doll, she grew tired of his taunting, and quickly shot out her hand to snatch back her precious belonging. Unfortunately for her, her brother was expecting this course of action, and expertly tossed the doll over her head into the awaiting arms of his fellow twin of 14, Gabriel, who quickly hid it behind his back.

Maria, sparing a second to glare at Nathan for tricking her, twirled around, her delicate white dress flaring around her slim body, and turned her full attention to her other brother.

She imperiously held out her hand, "Give it back Gabe." Her voice was cold and commanding, and cracked with the whip of authority that far outstripped her still tender age. It was a voice that brooked no dissent and expected to be followed implicitly. It was the order of a Queen to her subject, a command to be carried out without question. Unfortunately, it seemed less than effective on her brother.

"Give what back Maria," Gabriel questioned innocently, a brilliant smile flashing across his face.

Maria screamed in anger, her mind finally snapping, and began chasing her brother around the room, who quickly tossed the doll back to Nathan, who himself began to run as she began chasing him, shrieking the entire time. This pattern continued for several minutes.

In the corner of the room at a large wooden table, watching the entire episode, sat Logan Gyre, Ruler of Cenaria, Overlord of Ceura, Lord of Khalidor, Sovereign of Lodricar, and High King of Midcryu, with a pained and tired expression on his face, as he attempted to tune out the cries of his children and read the reports on his desk.

"I always thought that the sounds of children playing were supposed to fill one with happiness and a sense of contentment, not," he thought, slowly rubbing his temples, "give one a migraine."

After another particularly loud shriek by Maria he could only conclude that whomever thought that obviously never had children of their own. Though those three did seem particularly rambunctious. Perhaps setting his children as the standard was unfair to the rest, after all Elene seemed to be far better behaved than them.

Attempting to tune out the shouting, as their game devolved into a free-for-all scuffle, Logan once more began reading the reports from his scouts in Khalidor, near the Freeze. There had been an unusual amount of activity in that area from the natives.

Ever since the end of the Godkings of Khalidor, the inhabitants of the Freeze seemed content to leave things well enough alone. Though the people of the Freeze were generally thought of as a barbaric, primitive, and particularly bloodthirsty group that was not necessarily correct.

While it was true that, on the one hand, the people of the Freeze have been in a state of near constant warfare for centuries with Khalidor, that in itself was mostly an act of self-defense and retaliation, and more enlightening of Khalidor's nature, not the Freeze's.

Following the reign of Roygaris Ursuul and his ultimate defeat at Black Barrow by Alkestes and his heroes, the Godkings once more lost control of the Freeze. Embittered at the betrayal of Roygaris, and devastated by his Krull armies, the Freeze began a campaign of warfare against Khalidor. For generations the hatred of the people of the Freeze burned in the frozen wasteland, until 15 years ago. 15 years ago when Logan and his allies defeated Khali and the Ursuul line, once and for all ending the corrupted Godkings.

Finally the centuries old blood feud of the Freeze was ended, and its inhabitants seemed content to stay within their borders peaceably.

At least that seemed the case until just recently. The current reports from that area seemed to indicate an increased amount of skirmishes between the people of the Freeze and his patrol parties near the border. Scouts had reported more inhabitants of the Freeze heading south than in any recorded history Logan could remember. Which again struck him as odd.

Although little was truly known about the people of the Freeze, from all the travelers reports he read it is clear they are a proud and deeply religious people, with shaman-like figures at the head of their religious structure. These shamans, they believed, had the ability to communicate with spirits, and metaphysically travel to the spirit worlds. Stemming from this, their religion and culture also held great respect for their ancestors and their past, including the connection to the land. Thus, they would not likely move off their ancestral lands and relinquish that link to the past. That they were apparently doing so now troubled him.

"What would cause such a dramatic shift in their behavior," Logan mused. "It's almost as if they're fleeing." He paused in his ponderings for a moment to collect his thoughts before he was interrupted by a particularly loud scream.

Logan's eyes snapped up to his quarreling children, "Gabriel! Nathan! Leave you sister alone and give her back her doll now!" he shouted at them, his temper finally breaking.

Quickly the two boys stood up straight and handed Maria back her doll, who, by this time, had been reduced to a puffy-eyed state from crying. Glaring at her two older brothers, she marched out of the room. Sensing this was a wise course of action, they attempted to follow suit, but were stopped by the voice of their father.

"Boys, a word if you may."

Sighing to themselves, they lined up before their father who proceeded to look over them.

Nathan was tall for his age, having recently come into his growth spurt. Possibly as a result he was thin and lithe. His coloring was typical for a Khalidorian, pale, pale skin, and both dark of hair and eye. Though he was very much his Father's son in looks, he had his Mother's intellect; unfortunately he never seemed to put it to very good use.

Gabriel, strangely, looked neither like Dorian or Jenine. He was slightly shorter than his brother, and his coloring was more like that of a Cenarian's than anything, but instead of dark features of his Father, or the slightly fairer coloring of his mother, he had sandy blonde hair, and hazel eyes. Logan always mused on how different the two brothers looked. At the moment, Gabriel had a wide playful smirk on his face that screamed Kylar.

Logan grabbed the bridge of his nose trying to control his temper, "those boys spend far too much with Kylar," he thought.

"Boys, I know you enjoy having your fun, but must it always come at your sister's expense."

"We were just playing with her dad. She's just overreacting like always," retorted Gabriel.

Logan raised his eyebrow, "you call that playing. You do of course realize that I saw the whole thing."

Before either boy could respond, he held up his hand.

"Never mind, it was a rhetorical question," he sighed, mostly to himself.

"Which brings up another point. Why is it that all your misadventures seem to end up in my study? You have an entire castle to play in, why do you insist on constantly interrupting my work?"

However, before either boy could answer again, a gentle knock came at the door, followed by a brief pause, before it was opened.

In stepped, Jenine Gyre, Logan's Queen. She wore a simple, comfortable dress made of a smooth white silk, which loosely hugged her slender arms before extending out over her slightly swollen stomach. Her long wavy brown hair framed a perfect oval face, and fell down to the small of her back. Her usually warm brown gaze, elegant eyebrows, and warm red lips were drawn into a frown, with a slight angry gleam in her eyes. The source of her displeasure became clear as a small red-eyed girl, looking very much like her Jenine's miniature, poked her head out from behind her mother's legs and stuck her tongue out at her two brothers before retreating once more.

The two boys glared at their sister momentarily, until their Mother stepped forward and inhaled deeply.

"Nathan and Gabriel Gyre, what have I told you about teasing your little sister!" Jenine started lecturing, staring down at her sons who cringed slightly at her tone.

"Time and again I ask you to play nicely, and time and again you ignore me. I don't even know what I'm going to do with you anymore. Every year you seem to get worse. Maybe I should have you stop seeing Uncle Kylar."

Both boys gasped, their eyes wide with shock. Kylar was their favorite visitor; he always seemed to have some new idea they could try, or a story to tell them of his adventures.

The boys were about to protest when their Mother interrupted them.

"No excuses boys. I want both of you to go to your rooms and go to sleep. March!"

Both boys flew out of the room before their Mother could start scolding them again.

Jenine watched them leave then sighed. She walked over to give Logan a gentle kiss, before she too left the room holding on to Maria's small hand to put her to bed also.

Logan had watched the drama play out with a little smile on his lips. He could never quite bring himself to punish his two playful sons. But, if there was one thing he learned in his fifteen years with Jenine it was never to cross her. Growing up with her brother, Aleine, would probably do that to a woman.

His good mood didn't last long, however, as his thoughts strayed back to his reports.

Walking to his window he stared out at the crescent moon, the silver light too dim for him to make out any details of the city that stretched out beneath him. The green marking on his arm pulsed slightly in the pale moonlight, seemingly reacting to his uneasiness over the Freeze.

Logan had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Change was coming towards his kingdom, and he feared it was for the worse.

**A/N: Wai, finished . . . Somehow I don't feel like I accomplished anything.**


	2. Shifts in the Wind

Kylar cursed as his horse finally gave out under him. He quickly hopped off before it crashed into the ground with a sickening fleshy smack. Kylar winced slightly at the sight, cursing his own impatience to get back.

Ever since last night he had been riding hard to get back to Cenaria and Durzo. Too hard obviously, considering the state of his now dead horse. But he needed to talk to Durzo, had to. He would understand, probably.

Kylar sighed, "Durzo probably isn't going to enjoy this."

Ever since he had officially passed on his title as the Night Angel to Kylar, Durzo more or less took a laissez faire policy when it came to world saving or anything at all really, or perhaps as Vi would put it, "f**k it", preferring instead to spend time relaxing with his family, a luxury he had never truly indulged in the entirety of his nearly millennium long existence. But the bloody Dark Hunter was loose somewhere in Midcryu, again. Kylar believed this had to be an exception to the rule, hopefully.

Kylar picked up his pack and began a brisk jog in the direction of Cenaria, mumbling the whole time about the ways he was forced to travel.

"If only Durzo had actually taught me how to fly I wouldn't be having this problem," Kylar thought sourly, as he proceeded at an agonizingly slow pace.

Despite pleading with Durzo to teach him the finer points of physical manipulations, such as flying, he had refused flatly. He said it was because such transformations required incredibly fine control of one's talent Kylar did not yet have, and reminded Kylar that the repercussions of a failed transformation could leave him permanently stranded in an unsavory form.

Kylar shuddered thinking of the night he spent as a girl when he slightly botched up on the size of his glore vyrden, and had created it too small for him to effectively gather talent. He had frantically spent hours trying to change back, proving Durzo's point, much to his and everyone else's amusement. Durzo still brought it up from time to time mentioning how cute he looked, and Vi still laughs whenever she thinks of it to this day.

Kylar couldn't help but think the main reason he refused was more because Durzo didn't want to be bothered. Still he hoped his master would eventually teach him, with time.

That hope was misplaced. After several weeks of constantly pestering Durzo to teach him, his master finally snapped. A day and destroyed building later, Kylar had woken up in a foggy, pain induced haze and found himself literally in the gutter, and was forced to limp back home, his beating too severe for even the ka'kari to heal completely in a single night.

It was several years before he dared broach the subject again, and his master's response was, once more, incredibly unhelpful.

"Go find a dragon," Kylar said aloud, remembering as he jogged. "Where the hell can I find a dragon"?

Kylar continued onwards, cursing his master's half-assed attitude towards his teaching, and almost ran into a horse standing in the middle of the road. Stumbling backwards and cursing his ineptitude, he nearly fell down. He quickly glanced upwards, and sighed, wondering if some divine being was toying with him.

"As if I didn't have enough problems as it is."

On the road were three young Ceuran swordsmen, with only their own single, double-banded lock of hair on their shaved heads.

Ever since Logan's coronation as High King and Lantano Garuwashi's acceptance as the wielder of Ceur'caelesetos, Ceura had been in a state of relative peace for Ceura, without the normal tribal fighting that traditional defined the region. Normally this would be an encouraging sign in any other country, but in Ceura it was ticking time bomb.

Ceuran culture was based on mastery of the sword. For them, to live was to fight, and their sword was their soul. With almost two decades of peace and battles far and in between, many of the more hot-headed and fame-seeking young Ceuran's set off, looking for a challenge to hone their skills and show their fighting prowess. This led to an entire subculture for Ceura where many of the younger generation set off to find worthy opponents. Many had taken to roaming the wilder roads, and fighting any travelers who peaked their interest, most of the time dueling to the death. Essentially they became highwaymen.

Kylar had almost found it amusing at first, considering how disparate the country's culture was from his own, until he learned they were actually killing innocents. After watching a group of such men cut down the father of a poor traveling family, Kylar's tolerance of the practice vanished.

In a somewhat rage-induced one-man crusade, he traveled across all the less traveled paths of Midcryu, slaying any Ceuran who had the taint of murder in his eyes. Unfortunately, after learning that the Night Angel was slaying Ceuran swordsmen, more began to travel in search of him. After several long years, Kylar had made little headway into actually solving the problem, and if anything had, he grudgingly admitted, exacerbated it. He was at a loss at how to proceed, until his duel with Lantano Garuwashi finally arrived.

Durzo, back at the Chantry, had put Kylar through hell, training him in the subtler arts of swordsmanship. After nearly dying more times than he could count, the months slowly ticked by. By the end of their time together Durzo had stated he had taken Kylar as far as he possibly could, and to be a true blade master, the rest was up to him. Following his master's words, Kylar had immersed himself in his forms following the Ascension war. He spent years going over his fighting styles, and adapting them into his own, unique brand.

Therefore, when Kylar had stood before Lantano Garuwashi, the greatest swordsman of their time, he felt calm. He wasn't calm because he knew he was going to lose and it was futile, or because he was sure he would win. He was calm because he was ready.

Five years had passed quickly for Kylar as he stood before Lantano.

Not much had changed about the man in that time. He still possessed the same lithe body, which bespoke both a power and grace that promised swift death. His hair was still a clash of multicolored locks from all of the duels he had won over the years, one lock for one kill. This was most troubling for Kylar. Not that Lantano had killed, for he had looked at Lantano and saw that not one death weighed upon his soul. Though soaked in the blood of dozens, he was innocent. Every one of his kills was honorable, in a duel of skill. No, it was not the fact he had killed and more along the line that he hadn't. For, in the five years since Kylar had seen him, Lantano Garuwashi had not added a single lock to his hair.

This meant one of two things, either as King of Ceura he was above the petty challenges of his subjects, or no one wanted to be at the other end of Lantano's mythical blade. Kylar feared it was the latter.

Standing in the pale light of dawn, in the High Hall of Aenu, Kylar stood proud nonetheless, his black figure cutting out a jagged shadow. Today was the duel of the Avatar of the Night Angel and the King of all Ceurans, and as such he was properly attired. His body was completely covered in the black ka'kari, which accentuated his muscles, and caused a dull metallic sheen in the brightening light. On his face, however, was not the typical face of judgment, a face meant to inspire fear and terror in the hearts of the guilty, and hope for the souls of the innocent. No, on his face his mask was blank. The ka'kari formed an utterly and completely unmarked face, with no emotion or distinguishable marks, except for the eyes. The eyes glowed with a hidden power, with a light bluish flame leaking his eyes and trailing faintly in the air. To look into those eyes was to see judgment, and know how small one truly is. To look into those eyes was to look into the eyes of the Night Angel.

And so stood the Night Angel and Lantano in the morning light, the King wielding Ceur'caelesetos and the Avatar a sleek slightly curved black blade, which seemed to glow with the same eerie light as his eyes.

They stood several paces apart from each other, each seemingly at ease in their perspective stances. A trained eye, however, could note the slight tension in each of their shoulders, and a building strain in their legs. Both stared emotionlessly at each other, both gazes blank, devoid of fear . . . and mercy.

The High Hall of Aenu is legendary in Ceura, and indeed all of Midcryu. It has been the host of duels for centuries, ever since the creation of the nation. It has witnessed the birth of legends and the end of Kings, the rise of heroes and the death of masters. Countless lives had been lost on the cold marble floor of the Hall, and countless more will not doubt be taken in the future.

The Hall itself is a masterpiece of architecture. Sculpted, quite literally, from the base of Ceura's largest mountain, it spoke of strength immovable, and power unbreakable. Its granite structure consisted of only a single grand hall, which soared majestically to dizzying heights, belying the nature of the material it was carved from. The interior is covered in the tapestries of its more famous duels, circling the great hall. They were of grand scenes of the swords of past legends clashing against each other in mortal combat. Kylar conceded that a few of them were probably about Durzo, which seemed confirmed when his aforementioned master smirked at a few.

The floors themselves, apart from the tapestries, were the only part of the Hall that hinted at its true purpose, for they were made of pink marble to prevent any lingering . . . stains from being noticed.

It was in this hall that the collected nobles of every country gathered to watch the duel. And it was in this hall that a legend was born.

For those who were lucky enough to witness the duel remember it as the single most beautiful and terrifying spectacle they had ever witnessed. In a graceful dance of blurring steel and lightning movements, the two warriors whirled around the dueling hall for hours, each locked in mortal combat, neither gaining the upper hand, neither backing down. On that day Kylar had felt his sword singing to him as never before, he was lost in the moment, hardly paying attention to the spectators, his surroundings, or even Lantano and his deadly blade. In that one duel, Kylar was truly one with his blade. As the Ceurans saying went: one man, one sword, one soul.

Therefore, it was somewhat of a surprise when he felt his blade connect with Lantano's, only for that legendary blade to clatter to the ground. He glanced up to look at the King of Ceura. Sweat soaked through his plain woolen clothes, which were plastered to his chest, his long multi-colored locks were frizzled, and his breathing was heavy from his recent exertion. But on his face was the most peaceful and joyous smile Kylar had ever seen. This was not the face of a man who had just been locked in a match to the death; this was the face of a man who had finally attained something long searched for. This was the face of fulfillment and utter satisfaction.

After a moment of silence, Lantano Garuwashi, King of Ceura and wielder of Ceur'caelesetos, fell to his knees and bowed to Kylar, "Thank you," he whispered.

Kylar was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of a man dismounting.

Sighing once more, Kylar faced the young swordsmen, "how can I help you gentlemen."

The apparent leader of the group took a step towards him, he seemed slightly more intelligent than his two grunts, if only barely. He quickly surveyed Kylar's apparel noting the way Kylar held himself, seemingly loose and at ease, but with a deceptive tension and positioning as though he were about to strike.

"We are travelers in search of honor," said the leader in what, Kylar thought, sounded like a prepared and well-practiced speech. "Would you face us in a match of arm."

Sighing internally at the route this had taken, Kylar bowed slightly in apology, "I am sorry to say that pressing business has my attention, and am currently unable to accept your offer, please excuse me."

With that Kylar attempted to edge around the youths, only for an arm to block his path.

"I also apologize for this miscommunication, you see, we are not giving you a choice." With that he drew his sword, as did his two companions, which Kylar noted idly were all iron, and proceeded to take a sloppy stance across from him.

Scowling slightly at his interruption, Kylar attempted to once more pass the swordsman only for the sword to press against his chest.

"You will not be leaving here without a fight," said the leader once more, provokingly pushing his blade forward slightly more until a small stream of blood was running down the length.

With all the stress of finding out about the Hunter's escape, having not slept for a day, and his natural hatred for these punks, Kylar snapped.

In a blur of motion barely perceptible to the human eye, Kylar surged forward and grabbed the wrist of the leader, breaking it causing him to drop his sword, before kicking him in the sternum before he could cry out, crushing it beneath the force of the blow. The man was literally lifted off the ground as he sailed backwards 10 feet before collapsing in a gasping, trembling heap. He then drew on his talent and launched two phantom fists at the two lackeys knocking them backwards and fracturing a couple of ribs.

It took no longer than 3 seconds.

Both men coughed weakly, struggling to stay conscious from the pain and shock delivered to their systems. As their vision cleared they gasped.

Kylar stood before them, the mask of judgment on his face set in a snarl, his glowing blue eyes flaring briefly, causing both men to whimper as they stood before a creature of legend, the Night Angel. To look into his eyes was to realize how small one was, how insignificant they were. They radiated a power that could be felt, like the heat from the sun. Held by that gaze they felt their souls measured and weighed, and their every sin lay bared to this creature. They waited for his judgment.

Looking coldly down upon the fallen forms of the Ceurans behind his talent mesh mask, Kylar created two more fists and knocked them unconscious, before releasing his talent. Glancing about briefly, he quickly made his way to one of their horses, before saddling up and riding off towards Cenaria, grumbling about distractions.

He smiled briefly; at least he didn't have to run anymore.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Snow began to softly fall down to the city below the drab gray clouds. Each flake trembled slightly in the gentle arctic wind, a fragile, white crystal of indescribable beauty lazily circling in the air, until it touched the ground. In contrast to the pure snow, however, were the streets, which were covered in the dirt and grime from years of neglect and poverty. The light covering of fresh snow was instantly dirtied and blackened by the decades of filth and refuse that coated every part of this section of Cenaria, the Warrens.

Even after Baroness Kirena, better known as Momma K, had ascended to the throne of Cenaria and brought more prosperity to her lands than ever remembered, some aspects of Cenaria were too ingrained and dirtied to start anew, and so the Warrens persisted. The grim underbelly of the city had taken a major blow following Momma K's betrayal of the shadows. As acting Shinga for nearly two decades, she knew the ins and outs of nearly every underhanded operation that was worth mentioning in the not-so-fair city. As such, nearly all Sa'kage operations were not so much crippled as destroyed in one fell swoop. Centuries of building infrastructure and corruption were ground down into dust.

However, as is the nature corruption, the darkness persisted nonetheless. And so, even under the knowing eyes of Queen Kirena, the shadows slowly, but surely, rebuilt themselves, though they remain only a, pardon the pun, shadow of their former glory.

It comes, as no surprise then that huddled in a dark alley, shivering in the frozen slush, is a small boy.

Such sights, though not as common as before, still persisted in the Warrens; small roving gangs of younger children, banding together in a simplistic hierarchy to survive in the harsh environment still lingered from a bygone age.

The child was young, no older than 9, though because of malnutrition he appeared far younger. His body was thin and shrunken, tales of obvious abuse colored his bruised and scarred body. His hair was a dark brown, plastered to his skull with the grime that surrounded and covered his body. He was the poster-boy of the neglected, forgotten orphan.

He had never known who his parents were, for as long as he could remember he had always been alone, alone in the cold stone streets and wooden docks of the Warrens.

No gang would take him in. He had always been an outcast even amongst the outcasts. He wasn't quite sure as to why. It could have been his small and fragile stature, but even smalls in a gang had a place as distractions and sneaks, plus he was sure he would grow if he managed to get some food.

Perhaps it was his looks; he was pale of skin while dark of hair, the classic Khalidorian appearance. Ever since their brief occupation 15 years ago, Cenaria had yet to let go of their hate for them, despite having a long history of similar such occupations by nearly every nearby power in the region, it was still too soon to let go.

Or maybe is was his eyes, a glowing pearlescent swirl of colors that seem to hint there was something more to the boy.

Regardless of how the initial rejection occurred, what mattered now was that no one would associate with him, beyond a muttered curse or quick beating. To be alone amidst a sea of people was a sad and cruel fate.

Slowly the boy shakily stood up and walked off into the enshrouding darkness, looking for a warmer bed, though the chances were likely he would not survive the night.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Yoroi Gurath was not inexperienced in the art of war by any means. He was a veteran of the battlefield and his hands were soaked in the blood of many a fellow soldier and even civilian. He had fought in the Ascension Wars on the Khalidorian side, and had witnessed and participated in carnage and slaughter on a grand scale. He had watched entire villages be razed to the ground its inhabitants mercilessly butchered to fuel the mad king's Krull armies. As a Khalidorian he had raped and pillaged for decades for his religion and Khali. Even in these times of relative peace, one could still make a living fighting if they looked in the right places.

No, Yoroi was no novice when it came to death, but looking upon the sight unfolding before him, for the first time in nearly 15 years, he felt true terror.

His fellow mercenaries, hundreds of brothers of arms all fell to the inhuman killing machine. It showed no emotion even as it effortlessly soaked the ground in the blood of his comrades. How could just one person, just one being be capable of such carnage, such mindless destruction? How could one whose eye held no lust, no anger, no hatred nor sorrow take so many lives without the slightest of guilt? The calm composure of his face, the grace with which he carried himself, it was as though human lives meant nothing to the cloaked man.

Nothing but livestock.

"Stay back!" Screamed the mercenary as he tried to put as much distance between himself and the advancing demon. A soldier is supposed to show no fear, even before insurmountable odds. A soldier is always resolute, unshaken, and stoic. Apprehension and nervousness are alien words in a warrior's vocabulary. But such a vocabulary was reserved only for _humans_. It spoke nothing of a demon, a devil from the very abyss it self.

Before a demon, every fear is brought to the naked light.

Perhaps that is why humans called them demons in the first place. Not because they were powerful or ferocious, not because they are mindless and blood thirsty. Simply because in their presence, the ugliness humanity strived so hard to hide is revealed to all.

Desperately, the mercenary reached for his dagger, the one he kept well hidden in a small pouch. It seemed laughable in the presence of such a creature, but in the end, we would hold on to even the faintest hope of survival. With a half crazed cry, the man leapt to his feet, swinging his weapon wildly, trying to fend off his attacker.

He did not feel any pain as his body was ripped to shreds by an attack he could not even see.

**A/N: Sorry this took awhile to get out; I suffered minor writer's block halfway through. I know I kind of suddenly jumped into that duel, but damn it, I wanted to write something about it, so I just put it in. Also, I'm really bad at making up names, so don't shoot me, and the majority of the soldier scene was inspired by The-Silent-Muse's fic "Till Eternity's End", and I take no credit for it. You should read it, very well written.**


End file.
